RIP Pokey
Early Saturday afternoon, my 13-year-old German shorthair Pokey had to be put to sleep. Given his advanced age, I've been dreading this day for some time now, but it nonetheless snuck up on me in the past 24 hours as my dad reported him in high spirits as recently as 5:30 Friday afternoon. Prepared as I thought I would be to say goodbye to my second long-lived canine friend in 29 years, I still feel like I've been punched in the gut in the 24 hours since he's passed.
Pokey has lived at my parents' country place in rural Minnesota, and it just happened to be a weekend when I was making the 2 1/2 hour commute from my new home to visit. Pulling up the driveway just before 7:00 on Friday evening, I could see him sitting on the front step even though a steady snow was coming down. It was not unusual for him to be out in the snow or to be awaiting my arrival when my mom told him I was coming home, so it didn't strike me as odd. When I got to the first step, however, there was a spooky lifelessness in his eyes, and I could tell right away something was wrong. After petting him for a few minutes, I retreated indoors, but that look in his eyes haunted me all evening long and I just knew the morning light would bring something ominous.
Sure enough. I went outdoors Saturday morning to his doghouse inside the barn. He laid there motionless with an aggrieved look and dilated pupils. As I got closer, I could tell his breathing was labored, a nearly identical symptom that I witnessed when my previous dog, a 14-year-old Irish setter named Luke, passed on in December 1992. The writing was on the wall, particularly when I returned an hour later to find him in even worse shape. My dad and I were able to get him into a vet's office Saturday afternoon, and transporting a large and ill dog who desperately wanted to stay in bed was in itself no easy task. The look on the vet's face said it all before she even gave the diagnosis. He was running a bad fever and his abdomen was considerably swollen. We sprung for a final test and it came up positive for GDV, a common ailment in elderly animals where the stomach twists up in knots. It's an almost certain death sentence, usually within 24 hours. He was put down just before 2:00.
Needless to say, there have been alot of flashbacks in my mind over the course of the past 30 hours, dating all the way back to January 1995. I was a junior in high school, and my family decided it was time to get another dog in the hopes of replacing the seemingly irreplaceable Luke. We picked up the frisky, nine-month-old (and ironically named) "Pokey" from the local animal shelter and wondered if we were up to the task of breaking in this unbridled bundle of youthful energy. Within months, he had been trained not to chase cars, cats, or neighbors. It didn't take long to realize we had been blessed with another outstanding dog.
Pokey was an outdoor dog, as most rural dogs are, and I think he was better for it. Even though he had some cold nights enduring Minnesota winters, he always had doghouses filled with straw inside our barn that kept him cozy, and he had the freedom to run. Having had two outdoor dogs that have lived to a ripe old age, I'm skeptical that a pampered and relatively sedentary life indoors is preferable.
Considering that I only officially lived at my parents' place for three or four years since they've had Pokey, it's still amazing how strong of a connection I had to him. Looking forward to the year ahead, there are so many seasonal rites-of-passage that will be incomplete without him. No more long walks down our gravel road in the spring. No more drives to the lake in the summer. No more walks through the plowed corn field in the fall. No more "snowball fights" in the winter where Pokey would dive in the air to catch airborne chunks of snow in his mouth. I'll continue to come home a couple weekends a month, but at least this year, it's gonna seem awfully empty.
As heartwrenching as it has been, I'm glad I went home this weekend though. It was ultimately a blessing to have this happen on one of the four days per month where I visit "the farm". At least I was able to say goodbye. Had this happened last weekend, for instance, I would have heard the news by telephone and would feel even emptier.
Maybe at some point, a year or two down the road, my parents will decide to get another dog. I hope they do. I've yet to meet a dog that I've been unable to fall in love with after getting to know him or her, no matter how much I cling to the memory of the "perfect dog" I once had that was just put to rest. It's a safe bet that when the time comes, the next dog will be just as fulfilling as Pokey...or Luke before him. For now though, it's gonna be a very sad time for myself, my family, and my neighbors who have also grown to love Pokey.
Rest in peace, my good friend. You will never be forgotten.
Pokey has lived at my parents' country place in rural Minnesota, and it just happened to be a weekend when I was making the 2 1/2 hour commute from my new home to visit. Pulling up the driveway just before 7:00 on Friday evening, I could see him sitting on the front step even though a steady snow was coming down. It was not unusual for him to be out in the snow or to be awaiting my arrival when my mom told him I was coming home, so it didn't strike me as odd. When I got to the first step, however, there was a spooky lifelessness in his eyes, and I could tell right away something was wrong. After petting him for a few minutes, I retreated indoors, but that look in his eyes haunted me all evening long and I just knew the morning light would bring something ominous.
Sure enough. I went outdoors Saturday morning to his doghouse inside the barn. He laid there motionless with an aggrieved look and dilated pupils. As I got closer, I could tell his breathing was labored, a nearly identical symptom that I witnessed when my previous dog, a 14-year-old Irish setter named Luke, passed on in December 1992. The writing was on the wall, particularly when I returned an hour later to find him in even worse shape. My dad and I were able to get him into a vet's office Saturday afternoon, and transporting a large and ill dog who desperately wanted to stay in bed was in itself no easy task. The look on the vet's face said it all before she even gave the diagnosis. He was running a bad fever and his abdomen was considerably swollen. We sprung for a final test and it came up positive for GDV, a common ailment in elderly animals where the stomach twists up in knots. It's an almost certain death sentence, usually within 24 hours. He was put down just before 2:00.
Needless to say, there have been alot of flashbacks in my mind over the course of the past 30 hours, dating all the way back to January 1995. I was a junior in high school, and my family decided it was time to get another dog in the hopes of replacing the seemingly irreplaceable Luke. We picked up the frisky, nine-month-old (and ironically named) "Pokey" from the local animal shelter and wondered if we were up to the task of breaking in this unbridled bundle of youthful energy. Within months, he had been trained not to chase cars, cats, or neighbors. It didn't take long to realize we had been blessed with another outstanding dog.
Pokey was an outdoor dog, as most rural dogs are, and I think he was better for it. Even though he had some cold nights enduring Minnesota winters, he always had doghouses filled with straw inside our barn that kept him cozy, and he had the freedom to run. Having had two outdoor dogs that have lived to a ripe old age, I'm skeptical that a pampered and relatively sedentary life indoors is preferable.
Considering that I only officially lived at my parents' place for three or four years since they've had Pokey, it's still amazing how strong of a connection I had to him. Looking forward to the year ahead, there are so many seasonal rites-of-passage that will be incomplete without him. No more long walks down our gravel road in the spring. No more drives to the lake in the summer. No more walks through the plowed corn field in the fall. No more "snowball fights" in the winter where Pokey would dive in the air to catch airborne chunks of snow in his mouth. I'll continue to come home a couple weekends a month, but at least this year, it's gonna seem awfully empty.
As heartwrenching as it has been, I'm glad I went home this weekend though. It was ultimately a blessing to have this happen on one of the four days per month where I visit "the farm". At least I was able to say goodbye. Had this happened last weekend, for instance, I would have heard the news by telephone and would feel even emptier.
Maybe at some point, a year or two down the road, my parents will decide to get another dog. I hope they do. I've yet to meet a dog that I've been unable to fall in love with after getting to know him or her, no matter how much I cling to the memory of the "perfect dog" I once had that was just put to rest. It's a safe bet that when the time comes, the next dog will be just as fulfilling as Pokey...or Luke before him. For now though, it's gonna be a very sad time for myself, my family, and my neighbors who have also grown to love Pokey.
Rest in peace, my good friend. You will never be forgotten.
posted by Mark at 3:54 PM
4 Comments:
Sorry to hear about Pokey's passing. I know it feels to lose a pet that was practically a very close friend. I've felt that way with just about every pet we've had, all cats.
My first cats were male tabbies: Ling, who was tan, and Garfield (named after the famous comic book cat) who orange and who we nicknamed "G". I know my parents adopted them before I was born, since I have some old pictures of Ling and "G" from December 1982, the Christmas before I was born, when they were very young cats. Both Ling and "G" were outdoor cats, which wasn't really a problem in the mild Southern California weather. Ling was the more active of the two, often venturing throughout the neighborhood in search of critters to kill. Though I don't remember seeing him doing it, Ling killed a gopher and brought it back to the house. "G" lived up to his name very well. He was sedentary, often just lounging in the bushes or the garage.
When I was in first grade and playing outside with my sister and some of our friends, we saw "G" lying in the street, struggling to get up. We ran to him to see what was wrong, and it turned out a car hit him, breaking his right hind leg so badly that it had to be amputated. "G" was never the same again after he lost his leg. He was old and cranky and slept a lot for the rest of his life. Ling was still active even for a middle-aged cat (they were both 8).
There was another cat in the neighborhood that was a stray but hid out in our bushes a lot. "Sprinkles" never liked playing, and would get into fights with Ling and "G", especially "G" since Sprinkles slept where "G" usually does. My dad eventually found an owner for Sprinkles as we weren't planning to handle three cats.
As we were preparing for our move to Arizona in July 1994, we decided that the 13-year-old "G" would not be able to handle the long road trip and gave him away. Ling was 13 also, but he was still in very good shape for his age, so we took him on the trip to Tucson. We kept Ling in the apartment we lived in temporarily while we looked for a house. The landlord of the then-brand new neighborhood told us that we couldn't have pets in the house, so we had to give Ling away not long after we gave "G" away. I missed them both, especially since, at age 11, this would be the first time that I would be living without a pet. We decide not to get another cat until we finally finished with all the moving we had to do. (After Tucson we moved to Texas; Austin, Arlington, and finally Grapevine in 1996.)
In August 1998 we adopted two tabbies, 3-month-old male orange and tan tabbies just like Ling and "G". My brother named the orange cat "Rusty" after Rusty Greer (my brother was a Texas Rangers fan back then) and I named the tan cat "Champagne" as that was the color of his fur according to his adoption certificate.
A couple of weeks later my mom adopted a two-month-old female Russian Blue and named her Olga. Olga was our first ever female cat, which meant a lot to my mom since she lived with cats her whole life as well.
Rusty and Champagne were both very active as kittens and young adults. When they were 6 months old we allowed them to go outside. One night Champagne disappeared and never came back. Mom didn't want Olga to go out as she didn't want Olga to get into too much trouble since she was small as a kitten and adult cat. One day Rusty came limping into our backyard, with his right hind leg broken in five places. Fortunately the leg healed, though Rusty had to be kept in a cage to recover, which he didn't like. Rusty continues to be a very active hunter, even at age 8, and it isn't surprising to see a "present", a dead bird or rodent, on the porch or in the bushes, courtesy of him. (He even killed a baby rabbit and a squirrel!)
As I got out of school near the end of the school year in May 2000, one of my sister's friends found a tiny kitten that was dark orange and white and looked about a month old. She found the kitten in a dumpster and we decided that he needed help as soon as possible. Another one of my sister's friends found some tuna that we gave to him to try to keep him fed until we got back to the house and could give him some real food and water. I took him to the vet the next day and we nourished him back to health. My sister named him "Merlyn" (after the wizard). Merlyn became pretty much the new "G", being very sedentary and having an attitude around Rusty and Olga. It was funny to see Rusty and Merlyn in a wrestling match, since Merlyn is fat from being sedentary for most of his 6 (almost 7) years and Rusty is very strong from almost 9 years of running and climbing around the neighborhood to hunt. They both weigh about the same (15 lbs.), though you wouldn't be able to tell just by looking!
We did not have Olga for very long, but my mom and I developed a very close bond with her. Olga alternated between sleeping with my mom and I, and after I moved to college, she slept with my mom every night. Olga also loved when I brought back tuna subs from Subway. I gave her some bread and tuna and she ate it all. About 2 years after I moved to college, Olga started throwing up and had severe diarrhea. My mom took her to the vet and found out that she had cancer, which I found unbelievable for a 5-year-old cat. Olga also lost a third of her weight (the most she ever weighed, 9 pounds, down to 6). She became very emaciated and lost some of her beautiful silver-gray fur. I felt very terrible for her when I came back to visit for Thanksgiving and Christmas (the last time I would see Olga alive). Shortly after classes started that January, my mom contacted me on Instant Messenger and broke the bad news: Olga died. At about 4 AM, Olga climbed onto the bed and gave some little meows to my mom, letting my mom know it was time for her to go. And then she just died...right on the bed (this was just two months after she got sick). I cried for hours after hearing the news. The next time I visited, my mom had had Olga cremated and her ashes put in a beautiful cedar box with a name plate (Olga: June 11, 1998 - January 15, 2004), a purple glass rose, and a kitty angel statue.
About a year later, my mom adopted another Blue, 2-year-old Brooke (now she's almost 4; she got the name since she was rescued from a flood). Like Olga, she doesn't go out either, though she is more active and a little more aggressive to Rusty and Merlyn, and she sleeps with my mom every night.
My boyfriend lived with dogs his whole life. Shortly after he moved to Texas from Brazil, when they were camping, they found a stray Sheltie who they adopted as Chico, at about the time we adopted Rusty. I enjoyed playing with Chico. Unfortunately, Chico somehow escaped out of the backyard and got hit by a car and died. My boyfriend felt it was his fault, as he thought he had closed the backyard gate but it turned out it wasn't closed all the way. Shortly afterwards they adopted a hyper Beagle/Lab mix Cowalsky.
My boyfriend's brother and his late girlfriend were avid cat collectors, especially her, as she found as many stray cats as she could and took care of them. Unfortunately, shortly before my boyfriend and I came to Brazil for our trip last August, she died from severe anorexia and my boyfriend's brother (who was especially devastated) and dad had to find new homes for all the cats. My boyfriend's dad and brother, who live in Rio de Janeiro, took two of the cats for themselves, a long-fur white cat Pooshkin and an Oreo (black-and-white) Noel. My boyfriend's mom traveled to Brazil a few months after we got back and came back with two more cats, a 1-year-old brown tabby Lasher and a 3-year-old black cat Otelo. Lasher lost a leg to some disease but, unlike "G", he is still extremely active, I guess because he is still young, while "G" was 8 when his leg was amputated. Otelo is not as active as Lasher, but he is not overweight like "G" was and Merlyn is. Lasher and Otelo like to visit my boyfriend a lot. One of my boyfriend's uncles also has two cats, an aggressive Siamese Hannah (10) and a shy gray tabby Chico (6).
I can't wait to adopt a kitten of my own when I am settled in with a job and a home of my own. My boyfriend can't wait either. He says that it was because of me that he became extremely interested in cats.
Sara, you have actually had more luck than most with outdoor cats. My parents have had more than 50 barn cats at their place over the course of my lifetime, and the longest-lived one only made it to 6 1/2 years old before she disappeared without a trace one day. I've learned not to get too attached. Between the distemper, the spats with other cats, cars mowing down on the road, and coyotes gobbling them up in the open field at night, the attrition rate is substantial. And no matter what we did to try to control their numbers (spaying the females, getting them their shots as kittens), it never seems to do the trick with barn cats. Considering you lived in suburban southern California, you didn't have the same sets of challenges that our cats have, but still, having outdoor cats that lived until ages 13 and 11 is very rare.
Your Olga had a similar lifespan (and eventual departure) as Patches, our favorite and longest-lasting cat. Most of our female barn cats delivered their litter in far corners of the barn, out of sight and out of reach from humans. Thus, their kittens would be several weeks old before seeing daylight, and instinctively wary of humans for months. This was not the case with Patches, who ventured out of the barn at only about four weeks old in July 1997, bravely seeking attention from people and even my dog. This was par for the course of her nine lives, always staring danger in the face and laughing at it, always coming out without a scratch. One weekend day in November 2003, she was unusually frisky and was begging for attention....an eerie forecast for her looming departure. We never saw her again....and figure she must have been attacked by a coyote because we couldn't imagine her running away.
We have a couple of cats hanging around now....but they're all tomcats who don't exactly get along, so I'm not optimistic about their chances of a long life. Can you single out a favorite of the many cats you've had?
Sean, we've had cats go splat on the road, but never a dog. It's always a sad sight to wake up one morning to find one of your pets met a violent demise. Do you have a dog right now or are you in between?
Olga was definitely my favorite of the cats we had. She was very calm and sweet and enjoyed being around me.
Here is a new site that James and I and a new friend Jeff from Oklahoma started:
http://leftcoastheartland.blogspot.com/
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